


A Scottish Stone Sept

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Romance, Wedding, don't look at me, i'm a sap, it'll give you cavities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SanSan getting married, y'all. </p><p>Same universe as Hear Me Out and Sweet Disposition.<br/><a href="http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/119373380013/a-scottish-stone-sept">Picset</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scottish Stone Sept

 

May, Saturday morning, 11am

 

There was a short row of four cars, all of them rentals, save for the septon’s, and they were nearly the last two people to enter, seated as they were in the back of the last car. The vehicles were all parked on the edge of a narrow, winding road just outside a small yet dignified sept on a rocky outcrop. It was situated slightly below the road, and beyond it, a small graveyard dotted a flattened portion of hillside before the ground swept down into a broad, shallow valley, cut into by a foot path, the bottom of which was where a small tent had been erected by a lake to host the family for the reception afterwards. The slightest fall of spring rain came from the sky, but somehow, on this day, in this setting, it was a romantic, beautiful thing, even to Rickon.

“I’ll be right in, okay, baby?” he said, getting out of the back of Bran and Jojen’s rental car, holding his hand out to help Shireen wriggle her way across the seat in her snug dress. She extended one slim leg and then another, her heels impossibly high as she righted herself, coming out of the car as if she’d be stepping onto a red carpet. He drew her in for a kiss, flush against him, and then released her, his hand already cupped over the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, shielding it from the light feathering of rain drifting down. He flicked his lighter and lit it, closing his eyes a moment before exhaling with relief. Shireen rolled her eyes and nodded.

“You’re going to stink up the sept as if it were some night club,” she complained good-naturedly, but she kissed him again just the same. He took her gently by the elbow, helping her in her heels as she picked her way along the little gravel path leading from the road to the sept entrance, and from its doorway he caught a glimpse of his family all seated on the short wooden pews, Shireen taking a seat beside Bran. Arya glanced over her shoulder and trotted down the aisle towards him, wobbling only slightly in her heels.

“Gimme a drag,” she hissed, hanging halfway out the sept doorway, managing to look a lady in her dress though she’d had practice maybe only a handful of times in her entire life. “This maid of honor shit is gonna give me a panic attack.”

He chuckled and extended his smoke to her, and she sucked down a good quarter of it with one lungful before passing it back. “Oh yeah, there it is,” she said, closing her eyes dreamily. She was still hanging onto the door frame, feet still on the sept’s floor while the upper half of her body leaned far outside, enough that there were tiny droplets of rain collecting in her upswept hair. She looked like a drunk, hanging there, and it made him laugh.

“You’d make a lovely bride, Arry,” he grinned, and she scowled at him.

“I’ll be a bride the day you are, little brother. Now hurry up and get in here, Sandor won’t admit it, but I think he’s nervous enough to throw up. He needs his best man.”

“I’ll be in as soon as I’m done,” he said, giving her a light push on the shoulder. “Go on, stand up there and look like a proper girl for the first time in your life and leave me alone,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Arya huffed a sigh and stood up straight, flipping him the bird as the door closed, a grin on her face. He snorted and walked back to the road, the sept behind him, hoping he had planned well enough.

The day was a lucky one for him, as just then, up drove the fifth and final car, carrying only his father and Sansa, and they crept along past him and the row of cars, parking at the head of the line, where they’d be closest to the sept’s entrance. Rickon stubbed his cigarette out, opening Bran’s rental to tuck the butt in the car’s ashtray and shut the door, jogging down the road to where his sister and father were.

“Hey,” he said to his father, who clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a smile.

“Hi, son,” he said, leaning over to open the car’s back door. Rickon rocked back on his heels, waiting to see his sister for the first time in over a year. He felt a flurry in his chest, of nerves, of love, of happiness for her, and was so wrapped up in all of those things it took him a moment to understand what was happening when all that came out of the car was his sister’s hand, the blue ring on her finger glittering even under an overcast sky.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he said, taking her hand as he had done with Shireen, to help his eldest sister from the car. Rickon was no master at fashion, but he knew that his sister was a vision in a dress the color of a dove’s wing with lace sleeves down to her elbow and a skirt that went just to her knees. Her face was covered with a veil that went to her waist, and there were beads or pearls or something along the edge of it. He whistled low as she stood to her full height, as tall as he was in those heels, and she gave him a brilliant smile.

“You really think so?”

“I know so, Sansa. You look beautiful.” And she brought him into her for a hug, a sweet, tender hug, as gentle and full of love as his sister was.

“Are you ready to be a best man?”

“I’ve never been the best at anything, but I’ll give it my best shot,” he grinned, and she swatted his arm and rolled her eyes at the bad play on words. “But um, hey, I did want to ask you, do you have all of your uh, your bride things? You know, the borrowed thing, the um, the blue thing? All that other shit?”

She laughed. “Arya bought me these earrings, so that’s new, and mom gave me grandma’s handkerchief, which is blue, so it’s sort of borrowed, old  _and_  blue, although she told me I could have it, so maybe it’s not borrowed.”

Rickon grinned. “I have just the thing,” he said, and he pulled from his pocket the frayed, precious ticket stub from his first train ride across Italy with Shireen. “But I  _do_  want that back, so you know, it’s borrowed, for real.”

Sansa bit her lip and smiled, gazing up at him. “I’m so,  _so_  glad you’re here, Rickon. I wouldn’t have wanted to get married without you here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sis. Now, tuck this stub somewhere I don’t want to know about, and I’ll see you by the altar, okay?”

She nodded and, giving their father a glance that he took to mean  _avert your eyes,_ to which he took heart, gazing up into the drizzle, Sansa turned her back on the both of them and tucked it away in her dress. Rickon nodded once she turned back towards them, and moving her bouquet from one hand to the other, she looked to Ned.

“Ready, dad?”

“That’s my cue,” Rickon said, and he jogged down the gentle slope to the sept entrance and walked inside, closing the door gently behind him.

 

 

He had not been back on Scottish soil since he and his family had emigrated to the states back when he was still a boy in high school, and had never thought he’d  _be_  back, but here he was, at the insistence of his bride-to-be, and the smells of the earth and the feeling of the air on his skin were the same even after all these years. It was like going back in time, though back then he’d never thought he’d be married, and yet here he was in a stone sept, in a kilt, as well, for that matter, the dark greens and blues of his clan’s tartan, the dark greens and blues that would be Sansa’s as well, soon enough.

Sandor was on the step before the altar, trying on an air of nonchalance, finding that it did not fit him so well, not today, not this morning, minutes before his wedding. He had spoken a few words to the septon, who was a picture of serenity, smiling easily, but those attempts only made him feel more nervous, and so there he stood, by himself in front of a room full of Starks and their lovers, who were all staring back at him with beaming smiles. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands against his sporran, gazing out at nothing in particular, trying to calm his nerves.

In the back row was Arya, waiting for the signal to start her sister’s procession down the aisle, and in the first four pews sat the rest of the family. Shireen was next to Bran and Jojen, Meera on the other side.  _Ever the girl to come to a Stark wedding_ , he thought with an inward grin. Rickon had said once that the Starks collected strays, and not for the first time, Sandor wondered how true it was. There was Gendry, Jon and Ygritte, on the other side of the aisle along with Ned’s brother Benjen, a man he’d only met four days prior, a man he already admired.

There in the first pew was Catelyn, sitting next to Robb’s wife Talisa, who held their eldest child while Robb had the newborn against his chest, blissfully asleep. Catelyn herself held baby Bryon, just past 18 months. He was walking now, and half the reason their ceremony would be a relatively short one was because the lad couldn’t seem to sit still for longer than 20 minutes or so. Cat had her hands full, literally. He smiled down at his son and found himself relaxing, gazing into those wide, innocent eyes, as much a mingle of his parents’ as a storm-whipped sea, all blues and grays, all of his mother’s sparkle. Bryon had his father’s hair though, a messy mop of black; so long as there was no Gregor, Sandor didn’t care if that’s all the Clegane his boy would inherit.

He had already memorized the inside of the place though they’d only arrived about ten minutes ago, but he lifted his eyes again, needing anything for a distraction. There were garlands of ivy and small white flowers draped along the walls, and candles flickered and stuttered from the occasional gust of breeze coming in through cracks between the stone and the window glass, but were otherwise still. It was as if everything was holding its breath, and not just him.

The door opened and Rickon walked in; Arya leapt to her feet and slipped outside to wait for her sister, and the wedding planner, Lexie, standing in the back, bent over the stereo resting on a small table.  _That means she’s here,_ he thought wildly; his heart immediately began to pound and his mouth ran dry. Sandor blinked in an attempt to master himself, and laid his eyes on Sansa’s baby brother, as he strode towards him, for the first time since he’d left the states. He still had the muscle Elder Brother had helped him put on, and at last, finally, the young man had a peace about him that had never existed before. Rickon caught his gaze and nodded once, coming to stand beside him with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Well?” Sandor asked in a hushed voice, voice nearly cracking like a teenager’s. He swore internally and tried collecting himself. All he needed was some snippet of information about Sansa, about his little bird, and he’d be fine. He’d deal with the nerves just to hear of her, to lay his eyes on her.

“Oh. Yeah, she’s here,” Rickon said, face a picture of innocence. He slid his eyes sideways, giving Sandor a sly look. Sandor resisted the urge to punch him in the shoulder. Instead he nudged him, passing Sansa’s wedding band into Rickon’s outstretched hand before his future brother in law slipped it into his pocket.

“ _And?”_ He whispered with a hiss.

“She’s beautiful, man. Absolutely beautiful. You’re going to shit your kilt.”

“I never should have made you best man, you wee prick,” he grumbled, and Rickon chuckled.

“Best text message I’ve ever received from you, brother,” and Rickon turned to him fully, just as the music started, to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for loving my sister. Thanks for choosing us to be your family.” Sandor nodded, smiling faintly at his words, as mystified as he was touched by the sudden admission into Rickon’s feelings. And then the wooden door creaked open, and Sandor’s heart was in his mouth.

It was Arya first, classing it up as much as he’d ever before seen, wearing a dress the color of ripe plums that went to her knees, its full skirt reminding him of umbrellas in the rain. Her wild hair was up and out of her face for once, and the smile she gave him as she slowly, carefully made her way up the aisle was a sincere one, no mischief there, no deviance. She nodded to him, to her brother Rickon, and then bit her lip, her chin trembling ever so slightly.  _Arya had tears in her eyes,_  he realized with a shock, and then fear swept him over; if the sight of Sansa had made her emotional, what in seven hells would it do to _him_?

“You’ve got this,” Rickon whispered from the corner of his mouth, when Lexie asked them all to rise, and everyone turned their attention to the back of the sept. “Just go with it.”

Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but then there was Ned in the doorway, and a woman in gray, just behind the large man’s figure. He fought the urge to crane his neck or stand on his toes, and taking his best man’s advice, Sandor decided to just go with it, so he stood there, attempting patience, waiting to set eyes on the woman he loved.

Ned escorted her past the last pew and paused so she could round the corner, and Sandor felt like a piece of driftwood swept out to sea when she lifted her eyes and met his. Without thinking he lifted a hand to his heart, not entirely sure if it was beating quickly or if it had stopped altogether. Her red hair was loose beneath a veil, though even with that shrouding her face, he could see the brilliance of her eyes. Her dress was nothing he’d expected, but then, he was never sure what to expect. All he knew was that she looked like a true lady, a vision of perfection in light gray lace with a skirt that, like Arya’s, belled out and came just to her knees. There was the blue of her ring on her finger, and the blue and green of his clan in the swatch of tartan wrapped around the stems of her bouquet.

He gazed at her, knowing his expression was that of a drowning man’s seeing dry land for the first time, but he didn’t care. The others faded from his sight, even the music was nothing but a hum in the background as they regarded each other. Sandor felt like a man 10, no, 15 years younger as he looked at her, as she looked back at him, the candlelight and cool morning light from the four windows coloring her roan red hair beneath the gossamer veil. He saw her eyes were on him, only him, and it was as if the people were gone, the sept was simply air and trees around them, and just then, in that moment, a wild part of him wished he could marry her outside in the rain, to kiss her and make her his beneath the untamed Scottish sky, the earth beneath his feet, his heart in her hands, his happiness in the Tully blue of her eyes.

 

 

“Can you hear my heart?” She whispered to her father right after Arya stepped back into the sept, and she could hear the strains of classical music weaving out into the spring rain before the great door slowly eased shut. She pressed a hand to her chest, could feel her heart racing, and despite a hearty breakfast that morning and limited amounts of caffeine, she began to feel lightheaded.

“No, honey, but I can see it,” he said. “It’s in your eyes, and your smile. You look like you have the happiest, fullest heart in the entire world.” Ned smiled to her, and she saw in the crinkle of his eyes his joy for her, and also his sorrow. But when tears actually sprung to his eyes, Sansa flung her arms around him, and his arms came around her as well.

“Oh dad,” she said with a watery laugh. “Come on, two of your kids are already married, and Jon as well. You’ve got to be used to it by now.”

“You’re my little girl,” he said roughly, clearing his throat before drawing back. He smoothed her veil down, rubbed the delicate bridal illusion between his thumb and forefinger as if there was some mystery there to figure out. “And while I highly doubt Rickon will ever marry, I think my chances are better giving _him_ away than walking Arya down the aisle, so you’re my last,” he chuckled. “But this isn’t about them. This is about you. And while I’m happy I’ll be seeing Sandor at the end of the aisle, don’t fault an old man for crying over giving his eldest daughter away.”

She reached up and dabbed away the few tears that wetted his cheek and smiled. “Don’t worry, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said, and he laughed, kissing the crown of her head.

“Fair enough. Come on, Sansa. It’s time to get married.”

 

If anyone were to ask her, later, what she remembered, she wouldn’t be able to answer, not until she got to the end of the aisle and turned to face Sandor. That, she’d remember all her days. He cut an impressive figure in his kilt and black waistcoat, something she’d seen in pictures online but never yet on him, and had her father not been there guiding her down the aisle, she’d have frozen, rooted to the spot, at the sight of him so handsomely outfitted. He stood there, as tall and strong as he was still, save for pressing a hand to his heart when their eyes met. Sansa wanted to mirror him, to let him know she was right there with him, but her right hand was in the crook of her father’s elbow, the bouquet of freesia and thistle in her left. So she put her love into her smile, hoping he could see it from that distance.

He stood in the center of the step leading to the septon and altar, flanked on either side by Rickon and Arya, and Sansa knew they were smiling, she could see it on the periphery, but honestly she couldn’t spare them a second glance, not with _him_ there, the father of her son, the love of her life. She felt like she was sleepwalking, she paid so little attention to the rest of their surroundings, and though it was a small sept, and the aisle was short, it felt all too long before she was finally standing in front of him. He stepped down to her, wrenching his eyes from her only to look at her father.

“Who gives this woman away?” The septon said, breaking the spell momentarily. Sansa followed Sandor’s gaze and watched the exchange as Ned gently, lovingly took her hand from his arm and, just as they had in rehearsal, offered it to Sandor, who held it in his, as carefully as if she were made of spun sugar.

“My family and I do,” Eddard said softly, and he kissed Sansa on her cheek before taking his seat beside Catelyn, leaving her to stand alone, face to face now with Sandor before the altar. Arya leaned over and gently grasped the bouquet from her hand, and she breathed a laugh, having forgotten it was even there. She gave her sister a grateful, happy glance, and was surprised to see tears in her Arya’s eyes. They nodded, ever so slightly, to one another before Arya stood straight once more, and Sansa looked back to _him._

They clasped each other’s hands, and she could feel the slight tremor in his, now that they were focused on one another. She looked up at him, his eyes already on her, and they were the open, gray eyes of a boy almost, so naked a gaze it was; he was happy and he was scared, he was excited and he was hers, and he was ready. All of that was there, and though they had always been honest with one another, he’d never quite been as vulnerable as he was in that moment, and it was everything she could do not to kiss him then and there.

The septon read her favorite passage from _Jane Eyre_ and then said his own words of love and devotion, fortitude and unwavering loyalty, but they blended into one another as Sandor and she gazed at each other. She felt dizzy, almost, from the soft lighting, the tinkling patter of light rain on the diagonal panes of glass in the windows, the warmth of his hands in hers, the weight of love in his eyes. She could tell he was breathing hard, was having as much trouble keeping himself tied in and together as she was. It made her smile, which he immediately returned, his loose, shoulder length hair softening the scars on the left side of his face as they wrinkled with his smile, absorbing the candlelight coming from the sconces behind the altar. Impulsively, she lifted her hand, brushing the hair back to cup his face, and his eyes slid shut for just a fraction of a moment, his head tipping into her touch. She was marrying all of him, he needed to hide nothing from her, from anyone else.

The rings were asked for, and Rickon produced hers when Sandor turned, just as Arya handed over Sandor’s for Sansa, and then they turned back to one another, and she needed no mirror to tell her how brilliant her grin was, for he wore one that looked about as wide as hers felt. His eyebrows flicked up a moment as he slid the ring on her finger, but when she gently pushed his over the second knuckle, turning it slightly as it came to rest, he let loose a barely audible sigh.

“And so, by the power of their love and their vows, by the power vested in my by the seven, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

They had been together for more than two years, but her heart hammered in her chest as if this was the first time they’d ever kissed, despite the fact that they’d had a child together, and the veil billowed slightly with her quickened breath before he lifted it, slowly, prayerfully away from her face, stepping in to her as he draped it back against the fall of her hair, where it fell gracefully thanks to the expertly placed hairpins at the back of her head.

“My wife,” he murmured, holding her face in his hands, bowing his head just as she tipped hers back. His thumbs brushed her cheeks before his hands disappeared, as they always did, into the hair at the nape of her neck.

“My husband,” she managed to breathe out against his mouth before they kissed, and she pulled him in by the lapels of his waistcoat before her arms found their way around his neck as they so often did. There was clapping, cheering, a small but merry revelry from the pews, and they laughed, breaking the kiss, though she refused to let go of him. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” she said with a grin, and as she pulled him back for a deeper, far more intimate kiss, he growled, a deep rumble in his chest. Someone, _Arya, of course,_ let loose a wolf whistle, and it was done, they were wed, he was hers _forever_ and she knew he’d never let her go.

 

 

“Okay, I know there’s a path leading down there, baby, but how the fuck am I supposed to get there in _these?_ ” Shireen lifted her foot behind her, displaying her 4” heel to Rickon.

They were standing together outside in the road by Ned’s rental, a veritable cluster of Starks – _And Cleganes, now, three of them,_ he thought to himself proudly – Meera and Shireen glancing doubtfully down the hill towards the tent. It was still drizzling, and if he remembered anything of Scotland, it could dissipate in a flash or turn torrential in half as much time. Sandor smirked, looking to his wife, who had a catlike grin on her face, who was literally rubbing her hands together.

“Okay, so you know how I requested everyone wear knee length cocktail dresses?” She said, looking extremely pleased with herself.

“It was wonderfully Bridezilla of you,” Arya said, snagging Gendry’s cigarette, frowning when she found it to be damp.

“Very funny. It wasn’t a control issue, it was a fashion issue. Because just _look_ at how cute we’ll all be in _these_!” And she pressed the button on the car’s key chain, opening the trunk to reveal several pairs of Wellingtons. Ygritte actually clapped while Arya and Shireen immediately removed their shoes.

“Oh thank _gods_ ,” Shireen said, massaging the back of a heel as she leaned against Rickon. “I don’t know what the hells I was thinking, but we were in Harrod’s of all places, and I couldn’t turn them down.”

The women, Cat included, riffled through the boots until they found whatever pair fit best. Sansa produced a package of socks and each of them took a pair and their boots, sitting in various seats of the cars to change their footwear.

“Well done, Mrs. Clegane,” Sandor murmured after Sansa stood up, her silvery bejeweled shoes gone in place of her black boots. She grinned up at him, linking her arm in his. “You manage to make even those boots look ravishing.”

“If I do say so myself, Mr. Clegane,” and he felt a thrum of arousal to hear her say that.  Once everyone was ready, and he and Sansa had snuggled a bit with Bryon before Ned took over babysitting duties, everyone began wandering down the hill towards the tent. Music pulsed from it, sending Motown music out into the sleepy countryside.

He paused a moment, snaring Sansa’s hand in his, and took a moment to watch everyone crawl down the hill. Ygritte seemed to steal something of Jon’s, because with a shriek and a _whoop!_ she was running down the hill as he gave chase, Arya and Gendry not behaving much better; Robb and Talisa took it slow, their eldest daughter toddling beside them and their new baby girl strapped to her mother’s chest; Rickon, with his usual cloud of smoke, meandered, his arm slung across Shireen’s shoulders as they headed not for the tent but the loch. Ned and Cat walked hand in hand with Byron bouncing along on Ned’s shoulders. Meera chatted amiably with Benjen, and Sandor could only wonder what the night held for those two. And Bran and Jojen…

“Look how well he’s doing, even downhill,” Sansa murmured, following his thoughts easily, as she always did, and he squeezed her hand. “It’s a miracle. It really is.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“I’m so _happy_ , Sandor,” Sansa said, snaking an arm around the small of his back. “And it’s all your fault.” He smiled, drew her against his side and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger.

“No one is more at fault than you for bringing me all the things I never thought I’d have.” Sandor bent his head and kissed his wife, thoughts of their wedding night blooming up like devious little flowers when she brushed her tongue to his, when she whispered “I love you” against his mouth. “Well, little bird, shall we join our wedding party?”

“Yes, please,” she said with a smile, kissing him once more before he surprised a squeal out of her by bending down swiftly and sweeping her into his arms, a forearm around her back and a forearm beneath her knees. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him the entire way down the hill, and he prided himself on never slipping, not once, on the rain soaked grass. There was no reason to be worried; he’d never felt so surefooted in all his life.

**Author's Note:**

> I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT. Half of me wanted to keep going and document the whole evening and add some sexy times but the last line felt right, and it felt right ending it in Sandor's head, at the brink of enjoying the first day as a married man, their futures sprawling out in front of them. 
> 
> HNNNNNNGGG I just hope y'all don't hate it. I know there were a couple of people really looking forward to it. I don't want to disappoint. Thank you to EVERYONE who read this and to those who've stuck around since Hear Me Out which feels like forever ago. I missed these two!


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